


A Month to Kill

by Verabird



Category: Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, OC relationships (alas all gay), Queer History, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 06:38:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5733238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/pseuds/Verabird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stubborn case of Jacob Faraday. Bashed in the head with a glass object, early hours of new year's day, no witnesses, no known enemies, no family around to care, but a brutal execution nonetheless, carried out with purpose and the body dragged to their station, aired like dirty laundry, something the police were ordered to see.</p><p>Come February there's a bank robbery gone wrong, one man shot, but no money's taken and the police were called to the scene before the gun even went off.</p><p>It takes Sam until June to see the pattern, and Gene doesn't accept it until August, by which time someone very close to home is being threatened and it's almost too late to act.</p><p>All this while Sam tries to settle into a new year that he's lived before, and Gene keeps asking his advice and requesting time alone to discuss case files and murder weapons and drug cartels, subjects he breaches with alarming intimacy. </p><p>Repression, fear, a series of eerily similar car accidents, and a box of rat poison later, Sam still isn't sure how he's supposed to feel towards his commanding officer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Month to Kill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Little_Cello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Cello/gifts).



> This started life as a gift for littlecello as part of the martianholiday exchange. I like to think it's fashionably late, but really I just got too carried away with a murder.  
> Anyway, I love her and her writing and her drawing and her spirit and this is a sordid tale completely unlike any of those qualities.

Sam heard the faint whizzing of a Catherine wheel as he walked the damp route back to his flat. He heard the excited cry of a group of kids that quickly faded to disappointment as the firework fizzled out into the rain. He hoped internally none of them would try to light it again, but he was fairly certain the explosive was half hand-made anyway, loosely packed cardboard and gunpowder, not much cop on a twenty-first century firework anyhow.

The amber glow of nearby lamp posts drew angular lines in the rain, shining up against the dull brown brick of buildings and the scuffed pavement beneath his boots. It was cold, his hands were thrust deep in his pockets, and his eyes were on the ground shielded from the drizzle.

He'd left the party early. It was barely eleven, but he'd had enough of the ridiculously enthusiastic celebrations currently going on in CID. He was glad for the onset of 1974. For some reason he felt like it would truly cement himself in his new surroundings and he could finally keep a grip on things, but even he wasn't so excited as the excessively loud and obnoxious crew down at the station. Annie had hung around briefly, but even she'd left once the first fight began. Why on earth the mid twentieth century man was so obsessed with violence Sam would never truly understand. He shook his head to clear those thoughts.

He remembered locking his flat that morning, or at least he thought he did, but the door slid open beneath his palm before he'd had a chance to turn the key. The lock wasn't broken, it was just useless, and Sam's safety wasn't his number one concern. He flicked the light switch half expecting to see an intruder, but no one was breaking and entering that night.

New Year's Eve, the most dangerous night of the year for all the emergency services and not one single policeman was on duty. There was a WPC patrol unit, but it was likely they'd given up for the night and gone home. He wouldn't blame them, what with the rain and a commanding officer who wouldn't know or care either way.

Sam was tired, he could feel the onslaught of a headache creeping up on him, and was keen to simply call it a night. He'd had this night before, he'd already welcomed this coming new year, it seemed of no consequence if he just went to bed. Even his uncomfortable cot was calling for him.

He'd barely laid his head on his pillow before his eyes snapped open again. The sound of footsteps, he was sure of it, thunderously loud, banging up the internal staircase. He attempted to roll smoothly out of bed, landed in a pile of covers and limbs on the floor, then speedily tried to extricate himself.

The door burst open, surprisingly staying stuck to the flimsy hinges, though the ripping sound of splintered wood filled the room.

"Tyler!"

His voice was always too loud, too brutish, too penetrating, it got inside his skull and rattled around until it made him feel utterly broken down. Sam humphed from beneath the covers and managed to pull the blanket down from his eyes.

"For god's sake, Guv. It really wouldn't kill you to-"

Gene was already striding across the room, skirting the bed which awkwardly jutted out into the centre and was pulling Sam up by the arm dragging half the bed clothes still wrapped round him. Sam felt his bicep being crushed in the iron grip and yanked towards the door. Gene was tossing his jacket towards him.

"Get dressed. Station. Now."

"What's happened?" He asked, worried now. Gene was swaying slightly, his eyes were a little red; must have come straight from the party. Did he drive? Was he expecting Sam to get in a car with him?

"Tell you on the way. Hurry up!" Gene yelled this last statement, frustrated at Sam's ineffectual movement. Sam winced and groaned, headache firmly planted front and centre of his skull. Brilliant, he thought.

"This better be a murder," Sam said with irritation. "Getting me up like that better be worth two murders at least."

"Sorry to disappoint Gladys, it's just the one."

Sam swallowed. Good way to start a case with tact like that, although knowing Gene he probably wouldn't notice or mind. Depending on the calibre of the victim, Gene had already come up with several slashing comments about them. Gene shoved Sam in the small of the back, trying to get him down the stairs quicker and Sam complied with groggy accuracy, attempting to skip two steps at a time but sleep deprivation was working against him.

He got in the car, wishing that cars could hurry up and invent a reclining seat, and settled for leaning his forehead on the cool window. It was still raining, though lighter now, a gentle pitter patter running in shivers down the glass. The car depressed as Gene climbed in, yanking his coat through the door and slamming it.

"How much have you had?"

"Yer what?"

"To drink Gene, how much have you had to drink? You shouldn't be driving."

Gene didn't deem the question worthy of a respectful answer. Instead he reversed, switched gears, and set off, all in the space of a few seconds and a horrific screech of wheels. Sam closed his eyes, trying not to focus on the erratic driving or the noise of the engine. After a few moments he spoke.

"Can't the investigation start tomorrow? It's new year's eve."  
"New year's day," Gene corrected. "And a holiday doesn't stop a murderer."

Sam swallowed, throat dry, eyes twitching from tiredness. He wasn't in his right mind to investigate a murder right now. Hadn't it only been eleven when he'd turned in? Could that second of sleep really have been a few hours? "Tell me what happened."

"It was all la di dah, and then a body showed up, and that stopped the fun a bit."  
"Spare me the details why don't you Guv, just give me the bare facts."

"Just did."

Sam sighed. He'd wait until they got to the station to wring out the full story. It wasn't worth the fight this early in the case, he'd save that up for later. There always was one.

The Cortina screeched to halt outside the station and Sam groggily clambered out, rubbing his eyes. The sky was still black and the rain prevented him from looking up too long. It really was too early for this. They climbed the stairs in pace then entered the corridors of the station, wet footprints lining the grimy corridor.

"Who found the body?"

"Ray."

"Oh good." Sam could feel his day just getting better and better. Ray wasn't that bad at his job, far from perfect, very very far in fact, but his brutish approach meant it would be twice as hard to get information out of him. "Where?"

"Ask him yourself."

The double doors swung open and Sam faced a small collection of CID, the ones who'd stayed latest at the party, all gathered round a spot on the floor. Desks had been cleared back and the odd bit of paper or file was either stacked against the walls or strewn in a messy pile, anything to create floor space for the party. Ray was leaning against a desk, arms folded across his chest, unlit cigarette playing between the fingers of one hand. He was looking down, staring intently at the floor, expression more confused than surprised which was unusual considering the body lying there.

It was a man, salt and pepper hair matted with blood and small fragments of glass, explosively arranged around the gash in the man's skull. Blunt force trauma, Sam mentally noted, though he wasn't sure why as any idiot could have given that as a diagnosis.

"How did you lot manage to let this happen?" Sam was immediately suspicious. A body in the middle of a party seemed far too cliché, and for something like this to occur in front of the eyes of tens of police officers. Absurd. Gene nodded to Ray and gestured between him and Sam, requesting his tale. Ray wasn't a man of many words, and the sleep-deprived and headached Sam was usually grateful for it.

"I was outside for a smoke. Saw 'im."

"And then what?"

"Took 'im inside didn't I."  
Sam rubbed his eyes with the palm of one hand and let his eyes stutter a blink. The room was oddly quiet and subdued.

"So then someone bashed him over the head?"

"No, that happened before."  
"Before what?"

"Before I took 'im inside."  
Sam grimaced and took a few moments to gather himself. He hoped he'd wake up in his sordid flat any second and this could all be a very trying dream. "So, what I'm hearing is, you moved the body?"

Ray made a movement with his head that could be interpreted as a nod, but seemed far too non-committal. "Well it were raining so it didn't seem nice to leave 'im out."

Sam could feel his palm moving back up to his face in a gesture of pure frustration and exasperation. The whole situation was desperate already and they'd barely even begun. That was a whole lot of DNA evidence thrown out the window. Well, he'd work with what he'd got.

"Has anyone called Annie? DC Cartwright? She should be here."  
"Why?" Ray asked defensively.

"Because you lot are either still drunk or coming down, and she notices things, sees things you don't."

Gene coughed uncomfortably and moved to stand by the body's head. Sam was beginning to become aware now that they'd not only moved the body and dragged it inside, but also placed it facing down.

"We'll get her in the morning, I just want your opinion now."  
Sam raised his eyebrows. "My opinion."

Gene nodded, not making eye contact. His foot scuffed the floor far too close to the man's still bleeding head.

"Can we put him on a table or something?" Sam asked eventually.

"Can't boss," Chris said, seeming to step out the shadows with his piece of wisdom. "Might disrupt evidence."

Sam held back the sarcastic retort that threatened to rise. This was well and truly lost already.

"That's your professional opinion then?" Sam looked up to see Gene staring at him accusingly. There was something like disappointment in his narrowed eyes. "Put him on a table?"

Sam slid his jacket off his shoulders and handed it to Chris, then got down on his hands and knees. He winced as he got a closer look at the wound on the back of the man's head. It was a deep caved line, clearly someone hadn't got their intended result on the first blow and had laid down several more. Sam squinted and looked closer. His brain throbbed loudly in his ears and he felt a flush run up his neck. He would give anything to be in bed rather than staring at a corpse.

The hair at the nape of the man's neck was dusty white, and then further up it was...

"Ash," He murmured.

"What?" Gene said loudly, making Sam wince hard and skid slightly on his fingers.

"There's ash in his hair." Sam looked closer. The hair which he'd previously assumed to be a salt and pepper grey was really a purer white scattered with dark grey ash. "Cigarette ash I think, but we should wait for pathology to get some samples."

"Makes sense," Gene said. "Ray was out for a cigarette."

"The one still in his hand?" Sam asked lightly. "The unlit one?"

Gene and Sam both turned to look at Ray who shrugged as if the corpse was the most uninteresting thing in the world. Most people who found bodies went in for weeks of counselling and a few came out with some major PTSD. "Didn't get the chance," Ray supplied. "Saw the body first."

"This is too much for one cigarette anyway, there's loads of it," Sam remarked, shifting to the other side of the body. "Did you see anything on the street?"

Ray grunted, then privileged the noise with a verbal response. "No, but the rain would've washed it away."

"Maybe."

Sam stood and brushed the creases out his trousers, taking his jacket from Chris' hands. They were all still looking at him expectantly. He wondered if they'd all stood around like this waiting for Gene to come and get him. Surely they didn't care about his opinion as much as Gene apparently did. They worked well together on cases, but the rest of CID, Annie and part-time Chris excluded, didn't have much time for his methods.

"Well?" Gene asked expectantly, raising a laconic eyebrow in Sam's direction. Sam considered for a moment, then shook his head. It was late and the damage had been done.

"Get a team to comb the area. We can do details tomorrow after you've all slept tonight off."

"A team?" Gene scoffed, curling his hands into fists, the creak of the leather racking loud through Sam's mind. "You won't find one this time of night. You lot find him a bed down in the morgue, and I'll take fairy features home."

Sam couldn't be bothered to argue. He wondered whether his apathy was genuine, or if tomorrow a second glance at that corpse would gather up much more sympathy and will to solve the crime. He barely registered walking back to Gene's car, or the scuff as some of the men lifted the dead man and carried him below to the cool depths of the morgue. He'd half dozed off with his head resting on the window when Gene was shaking his shoulder. He started, eyes stuttering and turned to look at Gene whose mouth was a resolute line of no emotion.

"First murder of the year and they got in quick."

Sam mumbled something in agreement as he reached for the car door handle and let himself out into the dingy street.

"Not going to be an easy collar this one I can tell."

Sam turned on his heel. He'd made it to the side door of his building and his hand was resting on the broken latch. Gene had rolled the window down and was leaning on it with ease as he watched Sam. He'd assumed the ordeal was over, but Gene was still staring, expression blank. Sam coughed.

"Thanks for the ride."

"No problem."

For goodness' sake, why wouldn't he just leave? Maybe Gene was going to hold his silence against him, work around the case based on the fact that Sam had very little to say. The vague sounds of a domestic were coming from one of the flats on an upper floor, the window tilted open slightly. It didn't sound too violent, just raised voices. Sam considered for a moment; both voices were men. He was about to say something about maybe making sure it didn't kick off when Gene sat back in the car, rolled up the window and skidded away. Well, that was that then. Maybe he should have said goodbye. No. That might have seemed too familiar.

The voices were growing in volume and Sam begrudgingly noticed the open window was directly above his own. That meant a sleepless night while noises of this argument went on over his head. Perhaps he would have a word after all, flash his badge and pull a serious face and mention something about noise complaints.

The broken latch clicked and gave way and the door opened with an unyielding screech. It was loud, but not loud enough to cover the sudden sound of smashing glass, more shouting, then a heavy thud. Sam hastily tried to reengage his brain as he ran back round the front of the building. Sure enough there was a jagged hole in the small window, too small for a person. An object then, hurled during the fight no doubt.

He turned and climbed the cramped staircase, taking two at a time, skipping his floor and reaching the one above. He knocked on the door, hearing the voices inside suddenly turn hushed. A few moments later he heard footsteps and he could instinctively feel someone looking through the peephole, then the door opened a fraction kept at the angle by the chain.

"Is everything okay?" Sam posited, reaching inside his jacket for his badge. "I'm a police officer."

"No it's fine," The man inside replied quickly then slammed the door. Sam hadn't caught a good glimpse of his face, just a small slice from the crack between door and doorframe, broken by the chain hanging across them. He sighed, decided he didn't want anything to do with it, and headed downstairs to his own flat.

The next few days were hectic. An assortment of smaller cases mixed in with the rather large one of murder. So far the body in the morgue remained unidentified. No one had reported anyone missing, and there was no one in the files from the past few days that matched the description. As a final last ditch effort, Sam had sent Chris and a small team to search through missing persons from the whole of the last year. They dragged up a few names and they would have to do for enquires.

Sam stood in the cold of the morgue, an unpleasant temperature, a constant reminder that the place harboured dead bodies that needed to stay fresh. He rocked back and forth on his knees, an action that kept him focused, while he watched Gene angrily stalk the gurney.

"Male, late seventies, no external or internal injuries from the neck down," The pathologist was reading from a file, which he then passed over to Gene who flicked through with a feigning interest. "Four blows to the back of the head. My bet is the third penetrated the skull, and the fourth as you can see is shifted slightly probably due to the victim's fall. The abrasion on the forehead has traces of tarmac, my guess is due to his swift contact with the ground after the blunt force trauma rendered him lifeless."

Sam took it all in carefully. There wasn't anything new there that he hadn't deduced himself. Though for a man in his seventies to have remained standing by the third blow was quite impressive. Likely they'd come in quick succession, and also seemingly from behind which meant the element of surprise had been in the favour of the killer, but still.

"Any ideas on the weapon?"

"Made of glass."

Sam raised an eyebrow and looked closer at the gash of the pale corpse's skull. Gene made a grunting noise as he handed the file back over and shook his head. Sam glanced at him.

"What kind of pansy uses a murder weapon made of glass? Well Tyler that's your area of expertise. If it were you doin' it, why would you use glass?"

Sam ignored him and turned back to the pathologist who was staring with intent at the open wound. His expression was far too gleeful in Sam's opinion.

"Can you tell us anything else?"

"Only a few things I'm afraid. The weapon was glass, or at least contained an element of that material, and that part was the part that killed him. Also it was curved in shape, as I could see from the fragments extracted. All non-raw edges had a slight curve."

Sam found a metal kidney dish being waved under his nose, full of bits of glass, most of them tiny, but a few large pieces here and there. In his mind he heard the sudden smash of glass from the night before. Well, the man couldn't have been killed by a window, surely.

"Any idea what it could have been?"

"I'm not the detective I'm afraid. A decorative ornament perhaps?"

"What about a bottle?"

"It's too thick for that. Sustained a harsh beating from this man's skull without breaking. Also it's colourless with no markings whatsoever."

Sam wrinkled his nose. They'd found a wallet on the man, no ID though, just the notes and coins. Not a robbery then as several twenties had been wedged inside. His signet ring was still on his left hand, worn on the middle finger instead of the usual, and an expensive watch adorned his wrist. The attack had been deliberate and planned, the victim hadn't needed to turn around for the killer to strike, and nothing tangible seemed to be in it for them. But, if it was indeed an unusual assassination, why not a gun? Or at the very least something simple like a hammer or crowbar.

Not only that, but the body had been deliberately moved to in front of the station. Someone wanted this body found and noticed, and considering no one had come forward to claim this man as their relative, it seemed a strange desire. The whole top of the outside steps had been combed from top to bottom. Very little had been found considering the rain, and it had kept drizzling over the next few days so no one on the DNA swiping team seemed keen to stay out too long. But it was what hadn't been found that was the most important. No blood. Well, some obviously, but not enough.

The victim should have bled out all over the steps, but the wound was old by the time the body reached them. Signs of anyone who'd moved the body there were slim. They'd found traces of blue fibre snagged on the metal railing, but that could be from anybody at anytime. Still, they'd been triumphantly placed in a plastic bag as evidence, because really it was all they had.

Not even an extra tyre track or foot print crossed their path. Although it was unlikely the body had been dumped on foot, there was no evidence to suggest the contrary.

"What about the ash?"

"Hmmm?"

"There was ash in his hair. I saw it that night."

"Oh that, well we extracted what we could. It's not all from the same source. Originally I suspected cigarette ash due to the consistency, however there are also traces of heavier fragments."

"Wood?"

"No, nothing that heavy. Too light to be fireplace cinders. Perhaps paper, a loose weave of fabric at the most."

Sam rubbed his forehead with frustration and turned to Gene. "Any ideas?"

"Not until we work out who the old man was. Then we can bang up on every door he knew and find this murderer easy."

Sam didn't think it would be that simple. This killer had already made mistakes, moving the body for one was bound to leave a trace, but then it seemed deliberate. Had the rain acted in their unbeknownst favour? Or had the killer taken advantage?

Sam had Chris go through the missing persons reports for the past few months, but nothing was coming up. No elderly men matching the description in the slightest, so Sam had requested a broader search. The records became sporadic at best as they reached further back, but Chris dutifully soldiered through. Both he and Sam were disappointed that nothing arouse.

Sam and Gene did some door to door visits in the area, asking if anyone had seen anything suspicious or the like, but again the rewards were slim. An old lady had been sure she'd seen a man with a wheelbarrow containing a body, so Gene had spent the afternoon chasing that route. It turned out to be a man transporting the guy for the bonfire, and he had a solid alibi and reputable claims to back it up.

"Stupid old bird," Gene muttered, kicking a desk leg as he strode across the floor. It was reaching dusk, cold January wind swirled loose in the air, and dark was descending too quickly. "What about you Tyler? Anything?"

Sam tried to ignore the frustrated desperation in Gene's voice as he told him, no, there was nothing. No missing persons, no one in the area had seen anything, and the nearby gangs were all accounted for. Even if the man was a criminal with no one willing to report a disappearance they would have come up with something.

Sam trudged home at the end of the day, disappointed and tired. He was annoyed with himself, but this irritation also felt loaded on by Gene who side-eyed him every time he opened his mouth to contribute something useless to the case.

There was a tall figure, obscured in dark shadow, leaning on the brick of his building. He hesitated for a moment, taking his hands out of his pockets and preparing to curl them into fists. He nodded his head and gave the briefest of half-smiles, which he was relieved to see returned. The man had his coat collar turned up, but that was just for the cold, and a gloved finger was moving back and forth from his side to his lips, a cigarette between his fingers.

All was well there, thought Sam, just an evening smoker. The man tapped the butt and allowed a stream of ash to drop into the threadbare bushes then stumped it out onto a brick and dropped it into the dirt. "You heading up?" He asked in a voice more high-pitched than Sam was expecting, an East London accent. Sam nodded and instinctively released his name, flat number and profession in a quick rapid sentence. He instantly regretted his auto pilot.

"Police? Right, you're the one below us then. Came round on new year's, yeah?"

Sam squinted. The sliver of the man's face he remembered seeing through the crack in the door was different to this man's, but he couldn't be certain.

"I just wanted to make sure everything was okay," Sam said quickly, trying not to instigate himself further.

"Right you are. Will and I are always fighting, just our little domestics, don't mind us."

"Who's Will?"

"Flatmate," The man said quickly.

"I see." Sam didn't see, there was nothing to see at all, but he didn't know what else to say. He smiled politely when the staircase rounded to his floor and said a goodbye. "Well, if things ever get out of hand, you know where I am. I'm Sam by the way."

"Nice to meet you Sam, call me Jez."

Sam didn't think anything of his meeting. He opened a window to air his stuffy flat, then quickly closed it when the rain threatened to blow in. After heating up some beans in a saucepan for beans on toast, and downing a half bottle of mismatched red wine, he collapsed beneath the sheets.

The next morning he arrived at the station to a subdued atmosphere. Gene was having a heated conversation with Phyllis, something Sam couldn't keep up with, but the gist sounded like missing persons. He let his mind slide in and out of focus then quickly slid back to the front desk to listen to the rest.

"That could've been our man!" Gene was shouting, right up in Phyllis' face, who was taking the brunt of it with a bare expression. "You let the murderer walk right in with a key piece of evidence then off he trots and you don't bat an eyelid."

"First thing, Guv, it was a woman. Tiny scrawny thing probably in her fifties, and second it was Mrs Beaton who lives a few roads down and she very helpfully filled in an evidence form so we can find her again. Any questions?"

Gene was still fuming. He wanted to shout at someone or something, and Sam wished he'd kept walking now because Gene suddenly turned on his heel to face him.

"What are you staring at?"

"This is about our mystery man," Sam replied, instinctively leaning forward on his toes to seem taller. "What's the development?"

"The develop-" Gene cut himself off with an indignant splutter and grabbed the lapels of Sam's jacket, forcing him backwards through the double doors, across the main office floor and into his office. "This is the development," He yelled in Sam's face. Sam winced, feeling his back hit a filing cabinet. His hands were gripping uselessly to Gene's elbows in a vain attempt to push back. "Turns out our man planted a wallet on the body while the real one's been floatin' down the river this whole time making me look like a fool!" He gave Sam one last shove then let go.

Sam straightened his jacket and brushed it down, wrinkling his nose in distaste as Gene lifted both feet onto the desk and leaned back. "So we have a name?"

"Jacob Faraday."

"I don't know who that is."

"Neither did I, but now I do. Rich, works in the city, was on his third wife. I reckon she's taken a tasty insurance policy out on 'im and then ordered his execution."

"Let's not jump to conclusions." Sam sighed, knowing his protestations would be useless. "I take it we'll be questioning her?"

Gene scowled. "Of course we will! We've as good as solved this. Why else wouldn't she report him missing?"

Later that afternoon, Sam and Gene went round to the late Mr Faraday's house hoping to speak to his wife. Ten minutes after knocking on the door Gene was charging down the drive and off to kick the nearest lamp post. Sam thanked the maid that had informed them both that the Faraday's were off holidaying in Argentina, and that they weren't due back for a month, a story corroborated by neighbours who'd seen them go and the receipts and ticket copies helpfully shown to them by the confused maid. Gene had been all for telling her there and then that her employer had copped it, but Sam had held him back. They wouldn't get any information that way.

It turned out that Mrs Faraday was in Argentina, passport and customs confirmed it, but Mr Faraday had cut his holiday a month short to return to England. From the airport no one knew what had happened since. Gene kicked several things that day, inanimate objects and shins alike. They weren't just getting nowhere with the case, they were travelling further back.

The mid mark of the month came and went and still nothing further had shown up. Sam went home every night and said hello to Jez, still planted in his smoking spot. Sometimes he stayed for a quick chat until the stub was put out and they walked up to their respective flats. His light cockney wit was comforting.

It was the twenty-seventh day of January, a cool breezy evening, and Sam was staring at his ceiling. He was running over cases, old and new, something that helped him clear his head. There had been a simple string of robberies over the past few days, a few home break ins - Gene had applauded the genius use of crowbars - and this stubborn case of Jacob Faraday. Bashed in the head with a glass object, early hours of new year's day, no witnesses, no known enemies, no family around to care, but a brutal execution nonetheless, carried out with purpose and the body dragged to their station, aired like dirty laundry, something the police were ordered to see.

His mind drifted back and forth. From Gene's intense anger, twisted up inside him like a tight screw, to Ray's uncaring nonchalance at the sight of a man with half his brain falling out. The sound of wind roused him, clapping hard against the window. He stood and moved across to the pane of glass, slamming across the bolt. It was a cold night to be out, the whole of January had been freezing, yet every night there Jez had been with his cigarette and coat. Every night since the second. He'd never been there before, not one night in the whole of 1973.

Sam frowned. There wasn't anything illegal about smoking outside. Then again, there wasn't anything illegal about smoking inside. It was 1974, a good thirty years before the indoor smoking ban. Sam remembered when pubs were full of heavy smoke and conversations were had through open french doors. Most people smoked inside, no one bothered to step outside at this time of the century, out of courtesy or otherwise. His mind flicked back and forth between Jez's warm chats and Ray's casual reassurance that he'd been stepping out for a smoke, unlit cigarette twirling in his fingers.

Sam bolted out into the corridor and up the stairs, ignoring his door slamming open behind him and staying that way. He took two at a time until he was standing outside Jez and Will's flat. He checked his watch. It was before twelve which meant he'd get a response. He knocked as calmly as possible. He groaned inwardly when he saw it was Will who answered.

"Noise complaint?" He asked quickly, voice lacking concern.

"Uh...no, not that. Is Jez in?"

"Who's asking?"

Sam grimaced involuntarily, wondering if he should just push the door open and assert his way in. "I am. I need to ask him something."

"Can you ask me instead?"

"I suppose. Do you smoke?"

"No, only Jez, disgusting habit, stinks out the flat."

Sam frowned. "But he does it outside."

"Only since I threw his john brey out the window." Will snorted and rolled his eyes. "Didn't do it on purpose mind, but not a bad result, eh?"

Sam thought for a moment, unravelling the colloquial rhyming slang in his mind, then nodded, turned from the door and headed back downstairs. He passed his flat and kept moving, out into the cold night air. It took him several minutes, but he found it, turned down in the mud, buried under a few weeks of rain.

He ran a finger over the glass surface, a perfect smooth curve. Sturdy enough that it wouldn't break on immediate impact, but give it a few goes against something hard, say a man's skull, then it might smash.

An ashtray.

 


End file.
